


Excerpt

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Nothing Made Me [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hot Sex, M/M, Romantic Sherlock Holmes, Smol Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 15:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21000284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: ExcerptNoun     A short extract from a film, broadcast, or piece of music or writing.Verb      Take (a short extract) from a text.This is an excerpt from my Victor and Sherlock story Extricate; a little snippet, piece, clip or selection that never actually made it into the story as published. First published on Ao3 as Chapter 49 of the Ex Files, I am re-issuing here so it will sit within the collection. It covers the Cycling Weekend that Victor told his dad he would be doing instead of going to Colton Grange for his birthday. And it is a bit of romantic fluff for all of those who endured the pain and suffering of Extricate.





	Excerpt

"Two drowned rats… What can I do for you?”

The barmaid is looking askance at them and Victor doesn’t blame her. They are soaked to the skin, muddy and freezing, dripping onto the stone floor in front of the bar. “The Broad Leys called ahead. You told them you have a room for tonight.”

“Yes.” The barmaid gives Victor the once over look that he is used to, and then she tutts. “Mind you, no normal double bed is going to fit someone your height. And there’s only the one room.”

“That’s okay; we’re university students. We’re used to sharing. Just somewhere warm and dry will do.”

“It’s only fair to warn you; we’ve got a party in tonight: a thirtieth birthday party, which is why the other six rooms are already booked. The only available room’s directly over the bar.” She points up to the heavily beamed ceiling. “And being listed means we’re not able to do much sound-proofing.”

Victor turns to Sherlock. “Got your ear plugs?”

Between his chattering teeth, Sherlock can only manage a shaky “yes.”

“Then we’ll take it. Any port in a storm and all that.”

“Right. Go out the front door turn right and then right again to the passageway where you can get access to the back. Lock up your bikes at the covered bit. They should be safe and dry there. Come in through the back door and take the stairs up to the first floor. Room Four.”

She hands over a key. “If I were you, I’d get in quick and get a hot bath before the other guests arrive- not enough hot water to go around if everyone tries at the same time. And a word of warning—you’ll want to eat early because the kitchen’s going to be hellishly busy and most of the ordinary menu is off tonight because the locals are staying away. Not quite a private function, so I can get you something simple to eat before the party guests arrive at seven thirty. Chicken and chips okay for you? So be back down here by seven or you’ll go hungry.”

Victor nods, just happy to find food and shelter for the night.

They are on their way to Oxford for a long weekend: Friday through Sunday nights. One advantage of Victor resigning the captaincy and leaving the rugby team is that there is more time in his academic schedule, and he’s made arrangements with the lecturer to make up what he misses on Monday. Lucky for him, the man has a sense of humour. “Well, Trevor, I suppose you only get one twenty-first birthday in your life, so have a good one.”

In theory, the journey from Cambridge to Oxford should have taken between seven and nine hours, at an average cycling speed of twelve miles per hour. Unfortunately, theory and reality had collided with bad weather, poor visibility and a puncture near Stewkey. Then a wrong turn that cost them almost twenty minutes off their route had thrown yet another spanner in the works. When they’d realised that the storm clouds bringing sleet and wind were to the north, they changed their route and headed south to find shelter.

By the time Victor and Sherlock had arrived at the Broad Leys Inn on the outskirts of Aylesbury, they were cold, wet and hungry. Unfortunately, the inn was full, but they did call ahead to another place, The Bell, which is further in town—right on the market square, to be precise.

oOoOoOoOo

After locking up their bikes, they head back into the warmth of the pub. As Victor ducks below low hanging beams towards the stairs, Sherlock follows behind. He’s brought in the two sets of pannier bags that they’d rigged onto their bikes. At least they will have warm clothes to change into once they get out of their wet Lycra.

The first floor is like a lot of medieval buildings- a real rabbit’s warren of corridors, uneven floors and low doorways, but Victor eventually finds Room Four at the end of a paisley carpeted hallway. The door is open and when he pushes it, Victor has to start laughing. “Charming. Chloe would love it.”

“Where’s the heating? I need to turn up the thermostat.” Sherlock drops the panniers, toes off his cycle shoes and comes further into the room behind Victor. In one slightly aghast look he takes in the floral wallpaper, the pink carpet and the olde worlde mock-Tudor style reproduction furniture, complete with four-poster bed and flounced coverlet and valence that matches the rose bestrewn curtains. “Hideous,” he pronounces. “But warm. It’ll do.”

Victor circles around Sherlock, shuts the door, puts the key in the lock and turns it. “Sorry; this whole idea should have been put on hold when we heard the weather forecast. I’ll find the radiator valve and turn it wide open.”

Then he comes up behind Sherlock and envelopes him in a bear hug. “You’re freezing. Let me warm you up.” He can feel the boy shivering. “We’re both muddy and wet through. Let’s get out of these clothes.”

“I’ll be okay once I get into a hot bath.” Sherlock wriggles out of Victor’s hug and heads into the bathroom. It’s pink. _Very_ pink. Tiles, basin, toilet and tub. Even the towels are pink. He turns the hot tap and sticks a hand under the flow, waiting for the long pipe run to deliver some semblance of relief.

Victor rummages around in the panniers, thankful that they are waterproof. He lays out a change of clothes for both of them on the bed. He slips off his new watch, a gift from his father; fortunately, it’s waterproof.

When Victor pokes his head into the bathroom two minutes later, Sherlock is still waiting for the hot water to arrive before putting in the plug. He is now struggling out of the wet Lycra that clings to his skin like it is glued there. “Let me help,” Victor offers. “Then you can help me strip off, too. Shame there isn’t room for both of us in that tub.”

Victor is still a little amazed that he has the right…no, the _privilege_… of this kind of intimacy with Sherlock. A week after their adventures in London, his relationship with Sherlock is still new and shiny; he’s terrified he will do something wrong to frighten Sherlock off. 

As Victor pulls Sherlock’s cycling jersey over wet curls, matted by wearing a helmet for hours, the pale skin exposed is goose-bumped. Even so, he admires the view, because he can. And then he reciprocates by shedding his own top and then they are chest to chest in the small room. At least in here, Victor can stand up without having to bend his head to avoid beams. At some point, he is sure that he will clunk his head on one of them. He tilts Sherlock’s chin up so he can ask, “too cold for a kiss?”

“Let me put the plug in first.” Sherlock ducks out of the embrace and then drops to the tub, shoving the brass plug on a chain down to start filling the bath. A moment later, he is back chest to chest with Victor. “Where were we?”

In someone else, it might be seen as a flirt. In Sherlock’s case, Victor knows that he is innocent of all that; the boy’s natural pleasure in their relationship is genuine.

“I was about to kiss you.” And he does—a long, slow and romantic kiss. One of his hands finds its way to the back of Sherlock’s neck, the other drops around his back to the edge of the cycling leggings. 

This, just this. It is so sweet, and Victor relishes every moment of it. When they come up for air, he can’t resist. “Allow me,” dropping to his knees and peeling off the wet Lycra from Sherlock’s waist right down to his knees. Freed from their Lycra prison, Sherlock’s penis and balls drop onto his thighs and he actually moans with pleasure. “You have no idea how good that feels.”

“Of course, I do.” Victor shimmies out of his own and breathes a sigh of relief, too. “Riding commando is all well and good, but six hours is enough. I hope I’m not too saddle-sore to be able to sit.”

Sherlock bends to pull his own leggings off his ankles and feet, and while he is down there, tugs on Victor’s so he can step free. Steam from the bath is beginning to fill the room, and for the first time in at least three hours, Victor is beginning to thaw. 

“You first.” Victor grabs a towel off the rail and wraps it around his waist, enjoying the view as Sherlock tests the water, bending over and giving a fine view of that gorgeous arse of his. He stays in the bathroom, luxuriating in the heat, while Sherlock sinks into the water, moaning with pleasure.

oOoOoOoOoOo

They are still glowing pink from their hot baths when they get back downstairs for their meal. It may not be haute cuisine but at least the portions are generous, and Victor is so hungry that he manages to finish it in half the time that Sherlock takes. But he is happy to see that Sherlock’s appetite is sufficient to the task, even if it does involve large quantities of ketchup.

“I didn’t know you liked ketchup; why haven’t you said so before now?”

Sherlock looks up at him across his nearly empty plate. “You never asked. It seemed presumptuous of me to request it, given neither you nor Chloe ever had it in the flat.”

“You could have put it on the shopping list.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Didn’t think that was my place.”

“Your _place_ is with me. We’re together now. I want to produce things you like to eat.”

“You do. I have no complaints.”

“Oh? Well, there was that time I did a plate of calamari. After the first mouthful got spat out, you wouldn’t touch another one.”

“I didn’t complain.”

“No. You didn’t have to.” Victor thinks that his unfailing ability to take things literally is one of Sherlock’s endearing features. He is coming to realise that with Sherlock actions speak louder than words, and vows to pay more attention to how the boy reacts to the food that he puts in front of him. And other things, too. For someone who seemed to avoid being touched by other people, Sherlock has been surprisingly receptive to hugs, a hand on his arm, a rub of a hand through those curls, being in skin contact with Victor. It’s a revelation.

They are eating at a small table for two set into an alcove right next to the kitchen. It’s cramped enough that their knees would bump up against each other. To make it more comfortable, he slides one leg between Sherlock’s and then puts his other leg on the other side; in effect, he is able to squeeze Sherlock’s thigh at just the right pressure to bring a blush to Sherlock’s cheeks.

Not that anyone is paying the slightest bit of attention to them. In the main room of the pub, staff are setting up tables and chairs for the party. A longer trestle table to the side has salads and platters of ham and cheese with cling film over them. Balloons and streamers decorate the beams, and a disco turntable is being set up in the corner, just below where Victor guesses their bedroom is. There is a banner pinned to the bar—

_The Big Three OH! Happy birthday, Maggie_

The double doors from the kitchen swing open and a waitress comes through carrying a big cake. 

Sherlock smirks. “How appropriate, given it is your birthday.”

Victor pretends to be scandalised. “Not my thirtieth; not _that_ old yet! I dislike birthday cakes; too much sweet and rich butter cream icing. I can still remember my twelfth birthday party when I was allowed to invite some prep school friends over. I ended up eating too much cake and being sick.”

“I never had a birthday party, and I’ve never been invited to one.”

That confession shocks Victor. No matter how much he already knows about Sherlock, it’s stuff like this that occasionally blindsides him. He gives another slow squeeze of his legs against Sherlock’s thigh. “Well, today is my best birthday ever. You’re invited to my private party upstairs. Like I told my dad; I’d rather be with you than with anyone else. Finish that off and let’s get up there before the crowd arrives.”

oOoOoOoOoOo

The barmaid proves to be right. When he’s fully stretched out, Victor’s feet do hang off the end of the bed. Mind you, he’s not worrying about that at the moment. He and Sherlock are under the duvet enjoying a bit of mutual exploration. He is learning fast just how much stimulation is exciting and thrilling, and how not to push Sherlock right over the edge into avoidance. To Victor’s surprise, a firm touch seems better than a gentle one. It seems counter-intuitive. If someone is challenged by sensory processing issues, surely too much is worse than too little? But it’s only taken him a week to realise that the reverse is true. A firm grip or stroke seems to command attention and allows Sherlock to push aside other sensations.

Another thing Victor realises is that Sherlock is a quick learner. He watches and remembers everything that Victor likes, and then experiments with slight variations to see how far out he can push the envelope. No one has ever taken such time and effort with Victor. Chloe had been all about getting into bed and his role there was to bring her to climax. She’s explained it simply as a case of common sense. “Guys can come anytime they damn well please and as fast as they want, but girls take a lot more time and effort.”

The reverse is true with Sherlock. He reaches a climax very quickly and seems genuinely unconcerned about his own needs, so much so that Victor has to stop him from always focusing on what Victor wants. Like right now, when Sherlock has found that pinching one of Victor’s nipples between his thumb and a fingernail will elicit a throaty shout of pleasure.

Lucky for them, the music has started downstairs and it is certainly loud enough to drown out anything coming from their bedroom.

Despite the fact that the sensation is making his cock throb, Victor captures Sherlock’s hand and detaches it from his nipple.

“But you like that.”

Victor hums his agreement, “What do you like?”

“I like making you feel good.”

“Well, I like making you feel good too, so my turn now.” He keeps hold of Sherlock’s hand for a moment. “What do you like, _really_ like?”

“I don’t know. Insufficient data to form a hypothesis.”

Well, it’s honest, but Sherlock’s answer complicates matters because Victor doesn’t want to suggest something inappropriate or unwanted. That’s the main reason why he hasn’t yet broached the subject of penetration. Given Victor’s size, and his total lack of experience, the thought of anal sex is worrying him. What if he hurts Sherlock?

“Okay, as you are the scientist, let’s start gathering some data. I’m going to try a few things and you are going to promise me that you will tell me if you are enjoying them. Don’t you _dare_ let me do something simply because you think I want to do it. This is all about you. So that means you have to _tell me._ Talk to me.”

Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbows to give Victor a puzzled look. “Talk? About what?”

Victor can’t help a snigger. “About sex, about what you are feeling about what I am doing.”

“I’ve never done that.”

“First time for everything.”

“But, what do I say?”

“Tell me if it feels good.”

“It _all_ feels good, everything you do feels good.”

Victor rolls his eyes, and ends up looking at the horrible pink canopy over the four poster. Hastily averting his gaze back down to the riot of dark curls, Victor realises he needs to elaborate in a way that Sherlock can grasp. “No- that’s not true. You made it clear by freaking out when I accidentally pulled your hair. It would have been easier if I’d known how sensitive your scalp is in advance.”

“It was an accident.”

“Next time, it might not be, when I do something that hurts you. So… here’s an idea. Tell me on a scale of one to ten what your reaction is to each thing I do.”

Sherlock gives it some consideration, a tiny furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “That means comparison. You will need to keep doing things so the comparison is valid. You’ll have to repeat everything in sequence whenever you add something new. The scale will keep changing until I have enough data to draw a valid conclusion.”

The next two hours of exuberant experimentation are played out against a background sound track of the greatest hits of the 1990s, with a few golden oldies thrown in for good measure. The DJ plays Rod Stewart’s raspy voiced version of _Maggie May_, which makes Victor remember that this is the name of the birthday girl. Then it’s Stevie Wonder’s _Happy Birthday_. Somewhere around the time that Victor has a fair list of Sherlockian pleasures, _Birthday_ by Destiny’s Child follows on, almost inevitably. Victor recognises a lot because he’d been at prep school and then Greshams, both full of boys who wanted to be rock stars. And then there were the school dances, too. He knows for sure that he never, ever imagined his own birthday would be spent in bed with someone like Sherlock.

As the night wears on, midst the thumping beat of pop songs in which the party goers start joining in, a sliding scale of numbers starts to emerge. A stroke of Victor’s tongue up the shaft of Sherlock’s cock rates a six at the start, but once he adds in a lick at the glans, it drops to a four, the upward journey being demoted by the softly moaned seven. A finger rubbing at the perineum gets a four, which is hastily demoted to a two when Victor uses that same finger to probe into his anus. Sometimes, the number is whispered; on other occasions, it is much louder, and it makes Victor wonder whether he should have factored in a variable of volume, as well.

What he is discovering is that Sherlock is pretty tight down there, which worries him no end. A glance at his own achingly erect cock makes Victor wonder if he can’t get three fingers in that arse, he’s not going to be willing to try it. When two fingers in gets a lower score than one, Victor has a light bulb moment, a rather ecstatic epiphany—he’s approaching this the wrong way around. Victor is also someone who has acquired a taste for what he is experimenting with around Sherlock's anus. Fingers, tongue and all- why not a cock? 

“Sherlock, would you like to try something different for me?”

“Hmmm?”

“I’m going to go on my hands and knees. I’m going to hang onto the headboard, and I want you to come around behind and put your cock inside me.”

He’s watching Sherlock’s eyes, and they widen in surprise. “Why? Why would you do that for me?” This is said in a loud enough voice to be heard over the DJ’s current choice—a medley of Duran Duran’s greatest hits—coming up through the floorboards.

“Who says it’s for you? This is me wanting to explore my tastes, too. Think of it as a potential win-win.But you’ll have to talk to me. I won’t be able to see your face, and I need to know what you are feeling.”

“I’ve never done it before, might make a mess of it or worse, hurt you.” He looks serious.

“Oh, don’t worry. I will tell you what I’m feeling.” Victor slides away from Sherlock’s side, grabs the tube of lube and applies it liberally to himself before handing it over to Sherlock.

oOoOoOoOoOo

The crowd of party goers is getting into the groove downstairs. No doubt well-fuelled with alcohol and the exertion of dancing, they are beginning to sing along with the choruses. At no point do any of the dancers realise that the base beat behind Tina Turner singing _Whatever You Need _is being supplemented by the sound of the headboard of a four-poster bed being banged in time with the music. As Depeche Mode’s _Enjoy the Silence_ blares out, no one can hear the word “_TEN!_” being shouted out repeatedly by two different voices. 

Four minutes later, Victor imagines the thirty year old birthday girl is dancing with her fiancé singing rather drunkenly “_Words are meaningless and forgettable. All I ever wanted, all I ever needed is here in my arms.” _No one in the crowd hears Victor’s tenor voice upstairs singing the same lines, nor the perfect-pitch baritone that eventually joins in.

oOoOoOoOoOo

When Victor realises that he is awake rather than dreaming about the feel of Sherlock in his arms, he can’t resist smiling before he opens his eyes. By touch alone, he knows that in the night they have come into what is becoming their normal sleeping position. He’s the big spoon and Sherlock the little one. Both of them are bent at the knees to keep their feet warm under the covers. Victor’s arm is over Sherlock’s chest and his nose is buried in the boy’s dark curls, inhaling the scent of posh shampoo and conditioner.

The room is cold but he is in need of a pee, so he slides gently out of bed, hoping that exhaustion will keep Sherlock asleep.

Giving one stretch that smacks his arms into the overhead beam, Victor pads to the loo. While he’s there he realises that there is a “morning after the night before feeling” in his arse that is going to make cycling a bit painful today.

He moves to the window and tugs a curtain aside, to peek out. He gapes at the view; it’s a great excuse to climb back in bed.

Sherlock stirs and mumbles a query. “Victor?”

As he slides back in under the duvet and envelopes the boy again, Victor asks, “Who else? Who would you like it to be?”

“No one. Just you. What time is it?”

“Half past eight.”

“Oh.” Sherlock stiffens and then stretches languidly. “That means we need to get up and get breakfast. We have at least another two hours of cycling before we get to Oxford.”

“That isn’t going to happen today.”

“Why?”

Even though Sherlock is facing away from him, Victor can hear the wariness.

“Because it snowed last night. By the look of it, at least six inches. Biking in that mess is not happening. Besides… we have more experimentation to do right here, right now.”

“We’ve still got Saturday and Sunday nights booked at the B and B in Oxford. It might thaw by this afternoon.”

“Not if we’re lucky.”

Over a late breakfast downstairs, and a quick check by the publican of the local weather report, Victor is delighted to learn that the forecast is dire: more snow headed their way starting this afternoon. Fortunately, the publican tells them that the same room is available for Saturday night, before apologising. “It’s the big match—kick off is at eight pm; the place will be packed with locals to watch it on the big screen. Going to be a noisy night again.”

“That’s fine by us.”

They never make it to Oxford.

**Author's Note:**

> This one comes with a playlist. Tina Turner’s Whatever You Need is at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7aB5n7NsvA
> 
> Depeche Mode’s Enjoy The Silence is at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5Mv3WS3D-o The lyrics to both of these are just about as perfect as they can be for this particular story.


End file.
